


choking on flowers

by gracequills



Series: this side of paradise [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Cold Weather, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Express, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Humor, M/M, Magic, Short & Sweet, Slice of Life, Snow, Trains, Unresolved Romantic Tension, birthday gift fic!! ily b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracequills/pseuds/gracequills
Summary: “Damn, my lips are kinda cold, George,” he breathes. Time seems to hang on that very moment as snow swirls around them in great big gusts, wet and suffocating, plastering their hair to their foreheads and freezing along the curve of their eyelashes.George looks up at him with red cheeks and wide eyes, and Dream feels so full with it all that he's almost fit to burst.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: this side of paradise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117559
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	choking on flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhasesOfEarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhasesOfEarth/gifts).



> HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY BRO IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE AND A BIT SHORT- ILY SM <33
> 
> also i just want to preface this installment by saying i’ve never lived in the UK - i have plenty of family there and have visited quite a bit, though, so that’s where the bulk of my knowledge regarding the weather comes from. consider me a secondary source (@ my fellow history nerds).

If there’s anything at all that Dream likes about British winter—which is tough, honestly, because British winters are usually wet and dreary—it’s the way even a few inches of snow tends to stop everything in its tracks. There’ll be a small dusting of snow on the ground, barely enough to crunch when Dream steps in it, and the entire world will come to a standstill. Snow really is a miracle here—and if not quite a miracle, then it’s rare, at least.

Some days, the wind bites viciously at his fingers and the air feels heavy, like it’s waiting for a blanket of wet snow. Time seems to stop, stretching out between reddened fingers as clouds gather overhead. It’s on one of those days that Dream stands outside King’s Cross station, duffel coat wrapped firmly around his shoulders to keep out the cold. There’s hardly anyone about—only a few passersby, most of whom hardly give Dream and his suitcase a second glance.

He checks his watch, grimaces, and lets the cold wind guide him inside. He drags the bag behind him. It’s a bit warmer inside the station, at least; the wind dies down as soon as he steps through the doors, cheeks red and breath coming fast. His hair is a bit bedraggled underneath his hat, but it’s nothing some time in front of a mirror can’t fix.

Outside, it starts to snow. Lightly at first—as if the clouds are waiting for permission from the ground, somehow, before the snow begins to pick up. The sky is grey and the snow is wet and Dream finds himself thankful that he’s safely inside.

Even after six or so years spent in this strange country for school, Dream still finds himself transfixed by the sight outside—cars covered in ice, No-Majs gazing upwards in wonder—as much as ever. He lets a grin spread out over his face, something truly dazzling.

“You all set, mate?”

He turns his head sharply at the sound of another voice, his reverie broken for the moment. The man at the ticket counter gives him a tired smile, and Dream finds himself stumbling to respond.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. He watches, as if in slow motion, the way his accent registers with the man behind the counter. There’s a small widening of the eyes, lips pressing into a line, brows drawing together in surprise. It’s almost scientific in nature, Dream thinks, when he picks the process apart. Recognition settles itself on the man’s face at last.

“You’re from America?”

Dream resists the urge to wince. The question lives rent-free in his brain, practically on repeat from how often it's asked. His accent is a beacon in a dark sky.

But he tells himself that the guy is only curious. There’s no way for him to know how often Dream gets asked this question, or how impossible it is for Dream to blend in with his surroundings, so he says, “Yeah.”

The guy blinks. “Cool,” he says. “You on holiday? Here for Christmas?”

Dream shakes his head. “Here for school,” he says quickly.

The man gives him a sideways glance. Dream can almost hear the cogs in his brain turning. “You look a bit young for university,” the guy says slowly.

Dream swallows a bit too thickly. “‘m not in university,” he says, and the not-quite lie tastes bitter on his tongue. “It’s a boarding school.”

There’s a pregnant pause where the man is quite clearly figuring out how to word his next question. Dream takes advantage of the silence, ducking past the ticket booth with a casual salute on his fingers. “Take care!” he calls, a phrase that’s so American it aches, as the guy splutters a goodbye.

 _Right,_ Dream thinks as he heads into the station proper, still a bit shaken up from his encounter with the man from the ticket counter, _let's not miss the train._ He checks his watch again—it's becoming a bad habit of his—and straightens a little, shrugging into his coat to keep his neck warm.

He must look a sight—blond hair ruffled by the wind, cheeks red from the cold, his Hogwarts uniform tucked neatly under a duffel coat, suitcase tucked underneath his arm. No wonder the guy was concerned; Dream hasn't quite hit his growth spurt yet, even though he's in his last year of school. If only he looked like the adult he technically is.

Brushing the damp off his shoulders, he picks up his suitcase and resigns himself to his fate.

* * *

Platform nine and three-quarters is just as he remembers it: loud, chaotic, and familiar. It’s also extremely cold, far colder than the muggle platforms—it seems that the enchantment that usually keeps the snow and wind away has worn off, and there’s no time to replace it before the Hogwarts Express pulls in. As such, snow whips around the witches and wizards in a blur, stinging their cheeks and making their eyes water.

There are some familiar faces in the crowd, and Dream feels his grin widen as he spots a few of his friends. When his eyes catch on a familiar head of brown hair, though, he almost stops in his tracks.

It's exhilarating. Even through his blurry vision, Dream still recognizes his best friend. How could he not? George is a constant in his head, a refrain on loop. Dream is constantly pressing the _replay_ button on memories of the two of them together. Time spent away from Hogwarts, even for the two weeks allotted for Christmas holidays, is also time spent away from George. 

"Dream!" George calls now, grinning, his voice rising over the hubbub with ease. He waves.

Dream grits his teeth in a smile against the wind and ducks through the crowd. When he reaches George, he gives the older boy a smile that he hopes is dazzling enough to melt the snow. "Miss me?"

The Ravenclaw gives him an exasperated look that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Bold words from a man who owled me every single day," he proclaims, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself.

Dream kicks him in the shin half-heartedly, ignoring George's noise of pain. "Is it just me," he drawls, enjoying the way he towers over his friend, "or have you shrunk over Christmas?"

George scowls. "Fuck you," he says, but there's no heat in his words. He reaches up, tugs on Dream's scarf—a bright green monstrosity that he only wears as an excuse for house pride—and rolls his eyes at his friend. "You look dumb."

Dream glances down at his coat and scarf, frowning, before he finds George's gaze again. "At least I have _style,_ " he retorts lamely, gesturing to George's hoodie and sweatpants. "You'd wear the same thing six days a week."

"At least I'm not the motherfucker wearing a duffel coat," George says grandly. "Who are you, my grandad?"

Dream rolls his eyes. “At least I'm vaguely warm. Jesus, my hands are freezing,” he breathes out through gritted teeth. George gives him a small smile, breath pouring into the air in clouds, and he reaches out and grabs Dream’s hands in a viselike grip. George’s hands are warm, because _of course_ _they are._ He’s wearing about five layers underneath that dumb hoodie. He’s _supposed_ to be wearing robes, Dream thinks idly. At least the hoodie is blue.

Then, realization sets in, and Dream feels his limbs freeze even further _,_ completely caught off guard by the small movement. Heat jumps between them like an electric spark.

He doesn’t want to say anything—especially since George is usually so erratic with his affection. Moments like these are few and far between. He feels like they’re on the inside of a snow globe, holding hands as snow swirls around them in waves, horrible and wet and chilly.

“Better?” George says. If Dream didn’t know better, he’d think the other boy was blushing. His cheeks are red, sure, but it’s probably from the wind that whips their scarves around.

“Better,” he says, unsure of this fragile new tension between them. George smiles to himself, small and secretive, and wraps his fingers more securely around Dream’s.

“Didn’t realize Americans were so sensitive,” George complains, ducking his head when Dream sends him a half-hearted glare. “Grow up. It’s barely freezing, Dream.”

“Freezing? That's still too fucking cold,” Dream hisses out.

“You’re awful,” George says, with a smile that belies his words. “It’s just damp, you wimp.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he snipes back, laughing despite himself as he glances at the platform around them, the concrete still visible under a layer of ice. “You and your dumb wet snow. It’s barely sticking, freak.”

“At least we _have_ snow,” George says pointedly, “and not just thunderstorms. Why the hell would you want _lightning?”_

“Because it’s fucking awesome!”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m _American.”_

“You haven’t lived in America for years,” George complains, “can you really still call yourself one?”

Dream briefly considers pulling his dog-eared passport from its place in his bag, but decides against it—he's not going to risk losing his only form of ID in this goddamn country just to prove George wrong. "I lived in _Florida,_ " he says instead. "Plus, I still have the accent."

"True," George says, completely straight-faced. "You should get that checked out."

In response, Dream punches him lightly in the arm. "You're hopeless," he tells George.

"Thanks!" George grins up at him, brightly. "I'm sure you had no trouble with it over Christmas. Or today, in fact."

Dream groans. "Shut up."

George, who knows just how much Dream _hates_ being asked about his accent, bursts into a familiar peal of laughter that makes Dream's stomach twist. "You _did!"_ he manages. "Oh, Merlin, who was it this time?"

"Another No-Maj," Dream says, just because he relishes the way George screws his face up at the unfamiliar American slang. "The ticket guy at King's Cross."

"Call them muggles, asshole, you're not in America anymore."

"That's kind of—kind of rude," Dream remarks offhandedly. "You, GeorgeNotFound, are a nationalistic menace."

George rolls his eyes, both at the nickname and at Dream's words. "At least I can manage a passing grade in Arithmancy, you twat," he says, oh-so-seriously Dream thinks he might _also_ burst into laughter. George is cute when he gets all hot and bothered about his grades like this.

...Wait a minute. _Cute?_

"I'm telling you," Dream says, rushing past his own unfamiliar emotions at the speed of light for fear he might actually _feel_ something, "NEWTs don't matter unless you're trying to get a job with the Ministry."

George throws his head back and _groans._ "Why did you have to bring up NEWTS, you motherfucker? I could've gone another few weeks without Professor McGonagall talking my ear off about _job opportunities_ and the _scoring guide._ "

Chuckling a little, Dream rolls his eyes. Suddenly, he realizes that his hands are still intertwined with George's, so tightly he thinks his circulation might be cut off. He doesn't complain, though—instead, he tries for more, ignoring the butterflies that dance in his stomach. Testing the ice beneath them, so to speak, to see if it's solid or if it will crack with their weight.

"You know," he says, voice a little unsteady, "my face is still kinda cold, George."

George seems to go through the five stages of grief in about thirty seconds, like he can't decide what emotion to pick. He settles on _amusement,_ clear in the soft way he smiles up at Dream like they're the only two people on this godforsaken platform. It's a marked change from the George who shies away from this sort of shit; did something happen over the winter break?

But in one fluid motion, George reaches up and cups Dream's cheeks between his hands. Dream's breathing stutters.

"There," George says, clearly trying not to flush at his own boldness. He fails. 

The only thing Dream can focus on is the warmth of George's hands against his cheeks. Dream wasn't lying—his cheeks _are_ freezing, and George's hands are terribly terribly warm. The skin to skin contact draws a sharp line of tension between them. Dream ignores the long-suffering crush on his best friend (which he's had since _second year,_ for Merlin's sake) that seems to rear its head at the touch.

"Thanks," he breathes, like an idiot.

It's almost funny, the two of them standing there with stiff shoulders. George's motion has brought the two of them even closer. Belatedly, Dream finds himself staring down at his best friend, whose eyes are wide with exhilaration and something that might be regret.

Dream hopes it's not regret. He doesn't think he'll be able to live with himself if it's regret. He takes the leap anyway, stepping out onto the ice with a strange surety.

“Damn, my lips are kinda cold, George,” Dream breathes. Time seems to hang on that very moment as snow swirls around them in great big gusts, wet and suffocating, plastering their hair to their foreheads and freezing along the curve of their eyelashes. The other witches and wizards around them almost seem to vanish. 

George looks up at him with red cheeks and wide eyes and inches a little closer, and Dream feels so happy he's almost fit to burst.

The reverie is broken by the sharp whistle of the Hogwarts Express as it pulls into the platform. Dream feels his eyes widen as George pulls away to check his suitcase. The chaos of the platform returns to him, all at once, as the other students clamber to get on the train.

"You coming?" George calls as he hops onto the train, voice a little unsteady, like they _hadn't_ just been about to kiss. Like Dream wouldn't sacrifice Hogwarts for George. Like his heart isn't fluttering inside his chest.

"Yes," Dream says, and he hurries to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> dream in a duffel coat brainrot


End file.
